The True Meaning of Thanksgiving

It hasn't been long since Halloween, so I don't do much for Thanksgiving.

I do always condemn a turkey to execution. That's a rule. The President pardons one, but turkeys actually hate that. Their judicial system is entirely based on the principle of "a feather for a feather, a beak for a beak," so when one fowl criminal gets unjustly pardoned, I have to accelerate the punishment of one turkey on Death Row.

Don't worry, I make sure to sharpen my turkey-beheading axe "The Gobbler" so the birds don't suffer.

Most years I watch the Big Game, unless one of the gladiators pulls a hamstring or a gorgon escapes into the stands to feast on the spectators, when it gets canceled. My family used to get tickets and go to see the Big Game live, but now each ticket costs an entire piece of cursed Spanish gold, and we can only afford blessed Spanish gold.

Of course, we make Thanksgiving dinner like everybody else. I'll roast the turkey I personally executed while reading its heinous crimes from a long scroll, we'll pluck cranberries from the Cran-Nexus and let unrestrained dimensional forces smear them into a sauce, and the Mashed Potato Man will deliver mashed potatoes to our house by flinging them through our open windows and onto our plates.

At night, just before bed, we'll list out all the things we're thankful for from the past year. It's part of our annual ritual to ward off Nocturne, Demon of Nightmares, who is repulsed by rhythmically chanted gratitude.

-Will